


Silence, and everything but

by LittleLinor



Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Breathplay, M/M, Non-Sexual Kink, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 07:03:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19865464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLinor/pseuds/LittleLinor
Summary: After being held inside himself by force for so long, it takes Kazumi a long time to really try and reconnect with himself and his own desires. But Mamoru Anjou is attractive, confident, and forward—and more than happy to help. And one thing that Kazumi is starting to learn, after being repressed all his life, is that sometimes, it's okay to indulge.





	Silence, and everything but

**Author's Note:**

> The tags should be sufficient as warning, I think, but make sure to read them. It does touch on Kazumi's reaction to trauma (and on subspace), including crying.  
> Usual Disclaimer to kink responsibly and not take instructions from fic, etc.
> 
> I started this two years ago when the Shiranui reconciliation had not yet happened, so that's why it hasn't been worked into this the way I usually do. For the sake of consistency, in this canon, Shiranui did help him during Z, but they haven't particularly reconnected beyond that.

“Well then, Onimaru-kun…”  
You give him a tentative smile. You'd wanted, almost, to tell him that it was fine, that if the two of you were going to share any intimacy, then surely he could use your first name. But the truth is, you're glad that he doesn't.  
It sets them apart. Some days, when you're stressed, you can still hear a quiet, nauseatingly sweet voice murmuring in your ear, _Kazumi_ , and no amount of reminding you that its owner is far away from you now will stop it.  
You know it's a normal reaction to trauma, but part of you still whispers and leers, _you're crazy_ , and you've become too accustomed to hearing it over the years, just like you've learned to take it in stride and smile, still, in public. The Heir of Onimaru can't be seen crying or jumping from his own shadow, after all.  
So you merely give Mamoru a smile, and hope that maybe someday you'll be friends enough, and healthy enough, to ask him to call you differently.  
“Should I lie down?” you ask, years of training stopping you from stammering like your irregular heartbeat clearly wants you to.  
“Please.” He stays seated on the edge of the bed he's invited you to. You take a breath and lower yourself back and down, head resting on the mattress. “As I said, gripping any part of my arm that's above the elbow will count as a safeword. However…”  
“… however?”  
He hesitates, then sighs slightly.  
“I suppose dancing around the question will do no good. Considering your circumstances… how should I act if you struggle?”  
_Oh._  
It's… a more relevant question than you like to admit. You'd told yourself that if you started to panic too much, you could always just ask him to stop… but will you even be able to? You'd been so willing to throw yourself into this, regardless of consequences, that you'd avoided asking yourself the question; now, that omission smells suspiciously of self-destruction. Whether you were willing to let yourself get hurt, or to prove to yourself your worthlessness by letting things go wrong and scaring Mamoru away.  
But you can do better than that. He's giving you his trust by allowing you into his intimacy; you owe him honesty, and to act at least somewhat responsibly.  
… but now that he's _asked_ , now that it can be a conscious decision, you think you do want that kind of helplessness.  
“… please don't stop. Unless it actually frightens you— _you_ also have a right to stop at any time, after all.”  
“You do have a point,” he says with a smile.  
You expected him to lean over you then, but instead he takes the time to loosen his cravat and shirt collar, and roll his sleeves up. The image is… surprisingly striking, the unusual casualness heavy with intent, and it makes your already shaky heart beat even faster.  
_Please_ , a part of you calls out, and you blush at the realisation of how quickly you're ready to beg.  
Thankfully, he doesn't leave you time to cycle back into self-depreciation. His clothes loosened, he's already leaning, one hand pressed close to your head to support him, and he looks so _relaxed_ as he's observing you that you almost whimper.  
_He's done that kind of thing before._ It hits you with sudden certainty; it's in the easy confidence he moves with, the fluidity of his movements and absence of nervous tics; it melts, now that you can see it, seamlessly into the person he is outside, and maybe there was a reason, after all, for you to have been drawn to him, other than the shape of his hands.  
His second hand moves, rests lightly on your shoulder for a second as some kind of reassurance, then settles on your mouth. No pressure yet, and you can still breathe through it, but just the contact is dizzying. From anticipation, but also from the touch of his skin against your lips, from the air you feel hitting his hand and blowing back to you before dispersing.  
He's waiting. You were somewhat hoping to be pushed, to not have to face the nerve-wrecking task of asking and guiding, but you can't blame him for being careful, especially for a first time. Or maybe he's the kind of person who enjoys forcing one to face it.  
Or both. Who knows. He is, perhaps surprisingly, rather mysterious and private, and maybe that's part of his charm.  
(Part of you does hope that he'll open up to you, eventually, or rather allow you in. You think it's a good sign)  
He waits, still, calmly leaning above you. You take a deep breath, and close your eyes for a second. Open them again. And nod.  
His hand presses down.

It's just over your mouth, at first, like a second of still having control, and then his hold shifts to cover your nose, and part of you is rearing already, the panic of any part of you being stuck in place rushing to your heart. But if there's one thing those months of being restrained and alone and almost nonexistant have taught you, it's self-control, and the ability to endure. You close your eyes, take a slow breath that doesn't come, and let yourself sink, force your muscles to relax.  
After a few more seconds, he releases you.  
You open your eyes again, blink.  
“This one was just a test,” he explains, smiling—gently, caring, but with an edge to his smile and his eyes that promises more intensity, and the kind of mercilessness you've seen on him in some fights.  
“Have I proven satisfactory?” you ask, a slight challenge behind your teasing.  
He chuckles, and shakes his head.  
“You know that's not what I meant. But I take it you're fine, if you're still able to joke about it.”  
“… I'm sorry. Yes, I'm fine.”  
“In that case…” His smile is as calm as ever, but there's a new glint in his eyes that makes you think that he might have understood the intent of your challenge earlier, and just that is enough to make you shiver. “Do you mind if I take a little more control?”  
You gasp, and try to get a grip on your quickening breathing.  
_Anything you want_ , some old instinct calls, but you've learned your lesson. For now, at least, you'll have some restraint. It'll probably reassure him too, anyway.  
“Go ahead,” you tell him quietly.  
A smile, and before you have time to react, he's climbed on the bed and straddled your legs, pinning you down.  
This time, you can't keep your gasp under control at all.  
His hand comes to cover your mouth again, and already you're surrendering, closing your eyes with a whimper as you feel it settle over your lips, head tilting back slightly.  
And then he presses, again, covering both mouth and nose at once straight away. This time, you're ready for it; you welcome the fear before it even comes, channel it, let it sink along with everything else; physically, you're not even a little inconvenienced yet, your lungs full of plenty of oxygen, but it's being locked down in any way that gets to you; that, and the stillness, in your lungs and throat, stillness like the absolute absence of movement in the space your mind had been trapped in, like your perceived body for months. It eats at you, plunges you down, deep, before your body can even start struggling, and the deeper you fall, the less you're sure that you could struggle at all.  
And—oh god, with the pressure on your mouth rather than your throat, you can still cry out, and the whimpers just won't _stop_ , fear and abandon and feeling utterly pathetic in a way that, for once, doesn't reek of self-hate, of being looked down on even by the person you'd trusted with your life. And you _want_ that, so deeply that it makes you sob, you want to be reduced to nothing for a few sweet, blessed, _free_ moments, no longer a champion, no longer an heir, no longer cool or attractive or talented or _meant to rule_ , just a scrap of a person collapsing under the simple power of someone's hand, utterly weak and utterly helpless.  
You grip the sheets and squeeze your eyes shut and gasp uselessly against his hand, your head spinning more from the barely manageable panic than the lack of oxygen.  
When he releases you, the sudden influx of air to your lungs is enough to make you cough, like you'd breathed in so much smoke.  
His hand touches your cheek. You blink your eyes open, still coughing lightly, and look back up at him through the veil of unshed tears blurring your vision. Above you, cast in his own shadow, he looks serious and a little worried, but most of all intense, his face dark, haloed by the light of the room, his eyes burning quietly.  
Your heart stumbles. He's going to keep going.  
You close your eyes in silent acceptance, tacit permission. When you open them again, he smiles lightly and strokes your cheek.  
It's almost too much. You're not used to this level of affection, to the sweetness of touch. The only thing it reminds you of is the time before Shiranui grew cold, the gentleness that you drank right up because you were so desperate for it, oblivious to his feelings and your own lack of value, your own entitlement.  
Even now, the words you wrapped and convinced yourself with during your imprisonment creep back into your mind, all too familiar, all too full of answers.  
You bite your lip and look away. He pauses, surprised, then smiles faintly, a little sad, and removes the tender contact, using his hand to press firmly on your chest instead, controlling. You breathe a sigh of relief.  
“Your self-control is amazing,” he says, his tone not quite _warm_ but still wrought with genuine praise. “But you don't need to keep such a firm grip on it. I won't be scared if you let go more.”  
Were you? You didn't feel like you were keeping yourself under control. But maybe it's become second nature to you by now.  
“I'm…”  
' _Sorry_ ' dies on your lips. You're done with apologising for everything.  
You want to be strong enough, able to protect yourself enough, that Kazuma can look at you without worrying about you, that you can be someone for all the new friends you made to rely on. That you can stop being a pretty doll that they're afraid to break.  
You breathe, and the corpse of that _sorry_ flies away with it.  
You feel a little lighter.

He places his hand over your mouth again, and this time you sink before he's even cut you off, closing your eyes and letting your mind still, its ripples slowly fading into nothingness. With no thoughts, no breath, the beating of your own heart is the only thing resonating inside you, its hurried step the only hint of emotion you can still feel, in this place surrounded and isolated by your fear.  
It's almost, again, like being alone in nothingness, but infinitely more sensual as your head empties instead.  
And with your empty mind at peace, resigned, you open your eyes again, to his face standing against the light, to the cold hunger in his eyes.  
It burns. Even with the few breaths you were allowed to take, the short respite, your lungs still feel a little raw and tight from earlier. Even before you feel the need to breathe, your chest is burning, the full ache spreading through your ribcage.  
He watches you, as your vision grows damp and blurry again, as your burning chest starts to push on your throat and makes you gag, as your body, left to its own devices by your mind and your senses, tries to arch up and stays pinned by his weight instead, as it finally tries to breathe.  
Your eyes stay caught on his as your voice rises. You gag and the image of his calm, burning face blurs even more, and tears run down the side of your cheeks, pool in the corners of your eyes.  
He doesn't move, doesn't leave you. Distantly, as your body shakes, you notice that you've been sobbing.  
No movement has ever been this much of a relief before.  
Your chest tightens. Panic, the dull architecture of your mind's cage, starts to seep in, out, insidiously puppeting your body and slipping into your mind. You try to think, to emerge from the emptiness, but it's already there, whispering, caressing.  
In reflexive panic, your hand shoots up, aiming for his wrist.  
Before you can even reach him, he lets go, removing his hand from your mouth and sinking into your hair instead, holding you firmly down. You cry, unable to keep your eyes open, too overwhelmed to keep them closed. You sob, and sob, and his hold stays firm, controlling, and your own hand, from the aborted grip it had wanted to get on his arm, rises to hold on to his shirt instead, holding on to him like a drowning man to a branch.  
Like a prayer.  
It's only when you stop moving, the sobs finally drained of your aching chest, that he releases your hair and head and pets you instead.

Somehow, it doesn't bother you this time. You're too spent, maybe, for the discomfort to even take hold. It feels like so little of you is left, and at the same time, you've never felt so much of your body at once. The slight shaking running through you. The still-tense muscles of your legs. The still-burning stretch of your too-big lungs. The pooling, cooling tears on your eyes and cheeks.  
A new you seems to be born from the ashes of those sobs, but you can't quite inhabit him yet.  
Instead, you lean your head to the side a little, not quite into his touch, but towards it, and he smiles and rubs a thumb into your scalp. Still safely casual, but reassuring.  
It takes you a while to be able to talk.  
“… thank you.”  
“You're welcome.”  
He hasn't moved from where he is, and for a while you let him, the weight reassuring. There's something quiet and comfortable in the silence of drying tears, and you let it sink into you and print itself into your flesh. You want to remember this feeling.  
When the position finally becomes uncomfortable, you raise yourself up on your elbows.  
“Can I sit up?”  
“Of course.” He moves off you and stands next to the bed (such a fluid motion—he really does have a lot going for him. That your heart jumps a little again is probably a good sign), and offers you his hand. After a second of hesitation, you gratefully take it, and pull yourself up to sit on the edge of the bed.  
He doesn't try to embrace you, and you're grateful. Maybe you would have tried. But you're not sure you would have succeeded.  
He does, however, crouch a little to be at your level for a moment.  
“Do you have someone to be with tonight?” he asks, gentle but firm.  
He's right, you realise. You're fine now, but the backlash of your fear might hit you later, when you're alone and no longer drunk on quiet and peace and adrenaline. And it would probably be best if it was someone you can bear to be hugged by.  
Maybe Mamoru can be that person, eventually. But for now, you don't think you can take it.  
“I…” You hesitate. Your heart knows whose support would be the most calming, but coming out of the blue… and having to explain all of this, when you hadn't before… “I could go see Kazuma, if he's not busy, but…”  
“But?”  
“… I don't want to impose on him… I didn't explain what was going on or ask… if feels wrong to force him to see me when I'm like this.”  
“Do you really think he'd mind?”  
“… I don't know.”  
He watches you in silence for a few moments, then stands back up.  
“Let me get you a coffee for now.”  
Before you can react, he's given you his hand again, and you take it without thinking, letting him take you back to his living room.  
“Here,” he says, loosely guiding you to one of his couches. “Take a seat. You still need to rest.”  
“You don't have to...” you murmur as he turns on his coffee machine.  
“It's the least I can do.”  
You don't argue back. His matter of fact kindness might make you self-conscious, but it feels warm. Maybe you shouldn't be so eager to reject generosity. It's a lesson you still have to fully learn.  
The low rumble of steam buiding up fills the room.  
“… what about Chrono,” he suddenly suggests.  
“Chrono?”  
“Aren't you two close?”  
Close? You're friends, certainly, but would he consider you a close one?  
“… even if we are… isn't this too sudden?”  
He seems to ponder something for a moment.  
“… he probably won't mind me telling you this considering the circumstances. Chrono… will understand what this is about, if you tell him. You won't shock him or make him uncomfortable.”  
You blink. While you try to process the information, the hiss of coffee filling a cup reaches you, carrying its scent with it.  
“Also,” he says, coming back with a tray, “he'd probably get mad at me if I left one of his friends alone when they're feeling unstable. He'll at least be happy you asked him, if you have no one else.”  
“… maybe.”  
He sets the tray down in front of you. There's coffee, but also sweets, and you can't hold back a little stab of guilt. He's taking care of you. Everyone always is.  
“I can call him myself, if you want,” he offers. “Then you won't have to explain everything.”  
You shake your head.  
“No. No, I'll…” You hesitate, then come to a decision. “I'll ask him, but I'll call him myself.”  
He smiles, looking almost proud, and (to your flustered relief) goes back to his kitchen area.  
Steeling yourself, you pull out your phone.

“Kazumi? What's up?”  
“… do you have a moment?”  
A slight pause.  
“Yeah of course. Is something wrong?”  
You take a slow breath.  
“… I'm really sorry for imposing, but… could I maybe see you tonight? I think… I need to not be alone.” Before he can reply, you start babbling faster, trying to give him the facts before he can take a misguided decision. “I—I was with Mamoru-san, he said you might not mind—I'm terribly sorry, if it's too awkward a request, I'll—”  
“Mamoru-san?” His surprised tone takes your momentum from you, like a trail disappearing under your feet. But when he speaks again, his voice has gained focus. “Hm. Give me a second.”  
The noise of the microphone being covered, and for a moment you hear faint muffled voices.  
“Back, sorry. I'd be happy to see you, but I'm at Kazuma's place… is that a problem?”  
“I…”  
Your stomach drops. You hadn't wanted to involve Kazuma. Doubly so now, if Chrono knows something he doesn't.  
While you're still hesitating, his voice comes from your phone, faintly.  
“Give me the phone. I'll talk to him.”  
You freeze.  
“Nii-san?” he calls, much clearer this time.  
“K-Kazuma. Good evening.”  
“Are you okay? Why didn't you call _me_ if you need something?”  
“I…”  
_It's not like that_ , you want to protest, even though you don't even know if he's criticising you or not. _I just don't want to make you uncomfortable. I don't want to force you to see the messy underside of my life._  
You've wanted to be a perfect big brother for him, always. Just because you've failed at every step doesn't mean you shouldn't at least _try_.  
As you stay frozen, he sighs.  
“Listen. I don't know what you're scared of, but I'd rather _know_ what's going on, okay? You think I'd rather let you hurt in your corner?” He pauses. “… I've done enough of that as a kid. I didn't know back then. But I can know _now_ , you know?”  
You bite your lip, and find that you're almost crying again.  
“I… I'll come. I'll explain when I'm there. Is that okay?”  
“Yeah. Just get your ass here safely, okay?”  
You smile.  
“Okay.”  
In your peripheral vision, Mamoru comes back, carrying and sipping from a cup of his own.  
“Hey, it's me again”, Chrono tells you as he gets his phone back. “When do you wanna come?”  
“… I think I need a moment to get my bearings. I'll come after that? If that's okay?”  
“Are you still with Mamoru-san?”  
“Yes. He graciously offered me coffee.”  
He chuckles lightly.  
“'kay. Just text me when you're leaving then, okay?”  
“I will.”  
“Oh and, uh. If I'm not getting any weird ideas here. I can, like—give Kazuma a quick primer? So he knows what to expect—you know.”  
Your face heats up. But maybe it's for the best. You're not sure you'd find the words to explain _everything_ to Kazuma, right now.  
“… I'd be grateful,” you all but mumble into the phone.  
“I'll see you later, then,” he says, as a faint _what are you two so secretive about?_ filters through. “Keep us posted.”  
“I will. Thank you.”

“I take it that went well?” Mamoru asks as you hang up, carefully sitting next to you on the couch, close enough to touch if he reaches but far enough not to do it accidentally.  
“Yes.” You pause. “He was with Kazuma.”  
“Is that a good or a bad thing?”  
“… I'll tell you once I've gotten a chance to actually talk to him,” you chuckle. Feeling a little better, you reach for your cup. “Thank you for the coffee.”  
“You're welcome.”  
You dip your lips in. It's stronger than you're used to, bitter, but flavourful too. The warmth shoots through your body, and your mind clears a little. You hadn't even realised how light and cloudy it still was.  
“It's very good… you have impressive equipment.”  
He chuckles lightly. Is that embarrassment? You never thought you'd see it on someone like him.  
“I probably use it more than I use my kitchen proper.”  
Somehow, the image of elegant, confident, perfectly organised Mamoru Anjou coming home to his spotless apartment with takeout is funny. You don't laugh, but a smile pulls at your lips all the same.  
“I didn't learn much as a child,” he explains, leaning back, “so I've had to teach myself since I moved, and with my schedule… and with my mother regularly inviting me for dinner or sending me food, I admit I haven't had that much pressure to get serious about it.”  
A bittersweet pang of longing pulls as your chest. What must it be like, to have a loving and nurturing family? To grow up with your siblings, and not have such wounds to fix to reconnect with them?  
But you feel like you've been allowed to see a side of Mamoru that he doesn't usually show the rest of the world. Maybe one day your relationship could be a little less casual.  
Maybe. You'll have to think about whether you want it to. For now, this is more than enough.  
“I had to learn from scratch when I moved out suddenly,” you confide back. “It was… interesting.”  
He laughs. You smile back.

You finish your coffee.  
“… I should get going,” you say, once your last sweet is gone.  
“Onimaru-kun.”  
You turn. He's sitting straighter, looking at you intently.  
“… is there anything else I can do for you right now?”  
You shake your head. But—to your own surprise—for now, you feel at peace.  
“I'll be fine. Thank you for everything.” You pause. “I—I didn't think to tell you earlier, but… I really liked it. So, thank you.”  
He smiles, then reaches carefully for your shoulder.  
“May I?”  
You nod. He grips it lightly, and rubs his thumb into it like a caress.  
“I had a very good time too,” he says, his kindness edged with gleeful sharpness again. “If you want to try again, call me any time you want.” He grins. “You have my number, now, right?”  
“Y-yes,” you stammer, trying not to think about how red your face must be. How does he do that!? And there you thought you were too out of it to react. “I—I'll keep in touch.”  
He smiles, and squeezes your shoulder.  
“… will _you_ be all right?” you finally think to ask.  
“Yes. Don't worry about me—I have my own network.”  
“That's good...” You stand. “T—then, I'll be going.”

_____

“But seriously, though,” Kazuma mutters, not quite under his breath, “ _Mamoru Anjou?_ ”  
“I mean, he's pretty cool?” Chrono points out, handing you the bag of marshmallows. “I can see why people would go for it… you know, if you're into that type.”  
“I thought _you_ were into the opposite type,” he accuses. “… is Tokoha like him too? Wait, nevermind, I don't want to know that.”  
Chrono chuckles a little, the colour on his face hinting that he might yet again know more than he lets on.  
“Why don't you ask her yourself?”  
“ _What!?_ ”  
You drop the marshmallows into your mug, one by one.  
You're warm, from the blanket over your shoulders to the two bodies sitting on either side of you, almost against you, to the hot cup of cocoa in your hands. There's a cheesy movie playing, and your brother and friend are just chatting away, the awkwardness long gone. The imprint of their hugs is still snugly wrapped around your senses, a comforting memory.  
If the biggest issue Kazuma has with all this is the potential awkwardness of your choice of partners, well.  
You think you can live with that.  
You pass him the marshmallows.

**Author's Note:**

> (Kazuma and Tokoha being friends is Important okay.)


End file.
